


Moments

by pastelplastic



Category: Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons
Genre: M/M, gerry i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26147011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelplastic/pseuds/pastelplastic
Summary: Quiet moments that don't really fit anywhere else.
Relationships: Richard Fraser | Captain Ochre/Patrick Donaghue | Captain Magenta
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	1. Kiss

The kiss is fleeting. It must be, for these hallways are undoubtedly lined with cameras. Magenta can only pray nobody has any reason to review today's footage.

Or maybe even if they do, they will doubt their own eyes. The kiss was so brief that Ochre did not even slow in his stride to deliver it. Anyone watching the cameras would see them pass by one another. They might see Ochre's head turn to the side, they might notice Magenta lean in accommodatingly, but would they see Ochre's lips brush his cheek? And even if they did, would they believe it?

For Magenta is consistently professional and reliable and ever so eager to please. He trades shifts without complaint, no matter the day or the hour. He is friendly, he is sociable, and he does not hold grudges. He is not the sort of man who anyone can imagine accepting kisses from a fellow captain in a public hallway. 

It must be this way. He must prove himself every single day until they believe he is a changed man, never mind that he does not truly believe it himself and probably never will.

He was forced to take philosophy classes at Yale. Nothing intensive, just a couple entry-level courses to satisfy whatever old men had set the graduation requirements. At the time, he found them a waste, reasoning his time would have been better spent on topics relevant to his major. Philosophy was frustrating and abstract and simply refused to acknowledge its own highly subjective nature. He preferred the honest reliability of the sciences.

But now his thoughts return to those little pieces that have not been lost to time. He remembers sunny classrooms, he remembers autumn air, those early days before the riots and prison and everything else. Who was it that said goodness was a habit, a series of conscious and ongoing choices? Aristotle, he thinks, but freshman year was a decade ago so he might be wrong.

Regardless of who invented the concept, it's a pretty apt description of his life now. Every day, he chooses. Consciously, deliberately, he chooses goodness. And perhaps some day the habit will be so strongly ingrained that he will not even have to stop and think for more than a moment before he acts, but until then...

Until then he practices and pretends.

He does not speak of these things to anyone, not even Ochre. Not even when they are finally, truly alone, in those quiet moments when the light is dim and he sits on the edge of the bed while Ochre presses gentle kisses to the back of his neck.

"You seem tired," Ochre murmurs. 

"I've been thinking too much," Magenta admits. 

"What about?" Soft hands begin to massage his shoulders. 

_Aristotle,_ he does not say, because he does not wish to be laughed at tonight. Ochre would probably have even less patience for the Greeks than Magenta. But there is something comforting about breaking goodness down into a thousand tiny actions, rather than holding it up as some glorious, eternal state of being, so pure as to be unattainable for if that was the case, why should anyone even try?

What would Rich say if he told the truth, if he spilled out his fear that he was lying to everyone, including himself? He imagines those soft hands turning rough, pushing him away. He imagines Ochre's cold laugh, his sneer, his voice saying, "I knew it, I always knew it, I said it from the start that a man like you could never change--"

"Pat?"

"I love you." The words escape his mouth before he has time to consider them, and then he is mortified. Rich's hands tense, and he prepares himself for the shove. But his partner merely shifts his position to drape his arms around Pat's shoulders, to press his chest to his back, to rest his head on his shoulder. 

"I think I love you, too," Rich whispers.

Elation surges through him, even as a sick, insidious voice hisses that he does not deserve to love anyone and he certainly does not deserve to be loved in return. He has not yet earned that, he probably never will.


	2. Nightmare

No two nightmares are ever quite the same. Sometimes Ochre points the gun at him, a cold smile plastered across his face. Sometimes he is gaunt and sallow like Captain Black, but sometimes he is perfectly himself except for the cruelty glinting in his eyes. 

And sometimes Magenta is the one holding the gun, he is the one smiling while Ochre pleads. His partner is barely audible over the Mysterons roaring their orders in his brain, but Magenta can see his lips forming the words _I love you._

And sometimes the Mysterons do not feature in his dreams at all. Sometimes Ochre is crumpled on the ground, and the men standing over him are all his former associates. Sometimes they are smug. Sometimes they let him clutch Rich's body. Sometimes they turn their guns on him. 

Tonight, they look at him with confusion on their faces. One says, "We thought this was what you wanted, Mr. Donaghue?"

"No!" he shouts. "How could you think I wanted this?"

"Well, you ordered it, sir," he replies, and Magenta wakes up screaming.

He reaches for Rich instinctively, but the space beside him is empty. His partner has gone back to his own habsuite, for he has an early shift tomorrow morning and can’t be seen leaving Magenta’s room at such an hour.

So Magenta sits there, alone, gasping, drenched in sweat, eyes streaming. It was only a dream. Only a dream. Rich is fine, no doubt sleeping peacefully a few suites down. He presses a hand over his heart, trying to calm himself.

There is a knock at the door, and Magenta stumbles out of bed, wiping at his eyes. He prays that it is only Ochre, that he has not woken the entire base with his screams. But when the door slides open, it is Scarlet standing there before him. 

“I heard shouting,” says the other man. “I just wanted to make sure you’re all right?”

“No—I’m sorry. I just—a dream.” Magenta shakes his head. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“You didn’t,” says Scarlet, and Magenta realizes he is wearing his uniform, even though the morning shift doesn’t start for hours. “I was just passing by.” 

“I’m sorry,” Magenta repeats. 

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” Scarlet pauses. “You’re not the only one, you know. May I come in?” 

He really wants to refuse, to try to get back to sleep, but he steps back obligingly. Scarlet follows him into the room, shutting the door behind them. 

Magenta turns his face to the window. It is a cold, clear night, and he can see the stars perfectly. He presses his forehead to the glass, allowing the coolness to soothe his head. 

“I don’t need much sleep these days,” comments Scarlet. “Sometimes I get restless and walk the halls. And…I hear things. I think we’ve all seen things no man is meant to see. It’s only natural to be afraid. As I said, you’re not the only one. You’re not the only one who has nightmares.”

Magenta turns his eyes from the stars above to the misty darkness below. 

It is a long, long way down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can do more if ppl want... but this is all i got for now. lol.


	3. Shore Leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two people actually said they wanted to see more, which was two people more than I expected, so here you are!

Going out in plainclothes feels odd, but Magenta can’t deny that it’s very relaxing to be anonymous again. Spectrum officers get so much attention in public, it feels a bit like being on display. Most people just gawk, but some look around wildly, trying to determine what the most likely source of the explosion will be. 

In any case, Magenta has managed to accumulate so much unused leave time that White ordered him to stop accepting shifts from his fellow officers until he used some of it up. So now he sits at a tiny bistro table, half-awake, watching the sunlight cut through early morning mists as delivery trucks finish their rounds. 

Truthfully, Magenta has never minded mind the extra shifts. He’d probably cover for the Angels if he felt remotely qualified to do so. He enjoys feeling useful, feeling needed. Anything to push down that cruel voice that constantly reminds him he has no business being in Spectrum to begin with. 

He’s not alone, though. Ochre sits in the seat across from him, taking his time with a too-small cup of coffee. His partner doesn’t have nearly as many days off saved up, so Magenta is a bit flattered that he’s elected to spend them together. 

A young woman pauses to lean on the gate that separates the bistro from the sidewalk and casts a meaningful look in Ochre’s direction. Ochre responds by reaching out and placing his hand over Magenta’s. She smiles and moves on. 

Magenta did wonder, before they left, if White found it suspicious that they planned on spending their leave time together. He didn’t comment on it, but that doesn’t mean anything. It is the twenty-second century so they _probably_ won’t be dishonorably discharged if they’re found out, but he’s certain they’ll be assigned new partners. 

On the subject of partners… do Scarlet and Blue wonder about them? He supposes that would be fair, because he wonders about _them_ sometimes. There’s no real way to know, short of asking, because everything that’s happened in the last few years has caused all of them to bond more closely than they might have otherwise. 

At that moment, as though the universe has decided to mock him specifically, a radio crackles to life. Magenta tenses, and Ochre’s hand tightens around his. But it is only music that comes out of the café speakers, not a booming threat. Slowly, Magenta’s heart rate returns to normal. 

Ochre looks around, frowning heavily, and Magenta can tell he’s out to determine which of the café waiters is responsible so he can snap at them. Magenta turns his hand over to entwine their fingers and murmurs, “Don’t.” He won’t let his partner cause a scene because some poor underpaid worker decided to put on some music in the presence of two traumatized officers.

Ochre relents, sitting back in his seat, but does not withdraw his hand. Magenta’s eyes drift to the now-distant silhouette of the young woman who eyed Ochre. If anyone does suspect about the two of them, he thinks Ochre’s dating history will at least give them some cover. Rich has only ever dated women before, never knew he might want anything otherwise until the day they met. Or, more realistically, a few weeks after they met, after they burned through their initial mutual disdain and realized how much they had in common. 

Magenta, on the other hand…he does not know how many female undercover officers he politely rejected before the NYPD wised up and started sending in men instead, but it _was_ a bit of a running joke among his friends. 

Male officers were always easier to spot; they had the most horrible taste in shoes. 

Speaking of… he looks down at Ochre’s worn boots and frowns. Apparently, the problem is not exclusive to New York. 

“What’s wrong?” asks Ochre. 

“Your shoes. We’ll have to get you some new ones today.”

“I like these,” objects Ochre, but Magenta is already trying to remember the location of a shop he saw yesterday. “Pat, I mean it. Get that look off your face!”

“This will be a lot easier if you cooperate.” Magenta uses the tone he developed for speaking with would-be police informants, though these days it only sees use when Ochre’s habsuite needs to be cleaned. Ochre groans and throws his hands up in exasperation. 

“Fine!” he says. “But I’m not throwing out the old ones. They’re comfortable.”

Magenta knows to pick his battles, so he acquiesces with a nod. Ochre relaxes and places his hand back over Magenta’s again, signaling he doesn’t really care about the shoes but feels compelled to stand up for himself regardless. 

The weight is comforting.


	4. Fear

Magenta wakes to the gentle sensation of fingers running through his hair and opens his eyes. The familiar sight of Cloudbase’s medical centre greets him. He’d fallen asleep in a chair, his upper body rested upon the cot where his partner lay unconscious. 

Not unconscious anymore, though. Ochre’s hand falls away as he lifts his head. 

Ochre doesn’t look much better than he did when they brought him into sickbay last night. If anything, the bruises have had time to darken and now he looks even worse. Magenta doesn’t mean to cringe, but there’s no hiding his reaction. 

“That bad, huh?” asks Ochre. He raises a hand to touch his own face gingerly, and hisses in pain. “Damn it. What happened?”

“You don’t remember?” Magenta stretches, trying to relieve some of the stiffness in his back. “Fawn said you might not. The concussion was pretty bad.”

“I remember getting out the SPV and going into Dr. Baker’s house,” says Ochre. “I remember saying his carpet was awful. I remember you got mad at me; said I was being rude.”

“You were being rude.”

“Right. And then…we heard something, didn’t we? A noise? I opened the door and…” Ochre shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Black hit you in the face,” supplies Magenta. “With a crowbar. Twice.” 

Ochre winces. “I’ll take your word on it. Did we find that notebook, or…?”

“It’s been dealt with. The threat is over.”

“I missed all the fun?” 

“If you want to call it that.” Magenta shifts in his chair, pulls it a little closer to the cot. “I was worried about you.”

“Did you stay here all night?” Ochre’s hand ruffles Magenta’s hair again, but he doesn’t pull away. The touch is warm and comforting. “I’m surprised Fawn didn’t throw you out.”

“I was worried,” Magenta repeats. 

Ochre’s hand pauses, then slips down to cradle the side of his face. “I’m all right,” he says. “I promise.”

“I thought he’d killed you.”

Ochre swallows, uncertain of whether to play this admission off with some false bravado or say something reassuring. Before he can make up his mind, Magenta speaks again. 

“I killed him.”

“You—” Ochre blinks at him. 

“He got back up, eventually,” Magenta hurries to add. “The same way Scarlet does. But it was enough time to radio for help and get you out of there. I just wanted to tell you before someone else did.”

“Scarlet and Blue must kill him once a month. What’s the problem?”

Magenta looks down at his hands. “I didn’t shoot him. I was so angry—I was so scared. I thought I’d lost you. It was…excessive.”

Ochre shifts forward and pulls Magenta close for a hug. “I’d have done the same in your place.”

Magenta rests his head against Ochre’s shoulder. “White says I have to see Dr. Saffron before he’ll put me back on duty.”

“That’s not so bad, is it? She’s supposed to be nice.”

Magenta makes an indecisive noise. “I’m sure she is. I just…I wanted to be better than this.”

“Better than what?” Ochre pulls away to look his partner in the eye. “Who’s to say I’d have made it out if you didn’t stop him from hitting me a third time?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.” Ochre’s voice is firm. “Don’t talk about yourself that way.”

He doesn’t have the energy to argue, so he says nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted a third chapter bc people asked for it and then I posted this chapter because nobody asked for it


End file.
